


senses

by GKL (freelanceanthem)



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F, literally no one. no on asked for this, no actual smut just heavily implied whoops, we're not gonna talk abt this, who wants some second person???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 07:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13266627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freelanceanthem/pseuds/GKL
Summary: she's once in a lifetime, which is why she can only be fully appreciated with all five senses.-a very short thing.





	senses

i. _**sight**_ because sometimes, seeing isn’t believing. Otherwise, when you first saw her all those years ago, you’d have known just how much she’d mean to you. No, you needed to wait, let the world turn and others come and go until you finally see. You needed older eyes, different ones, to finally see the way looks after the younger players, even though she’s barely more than one herself. The care with which she looks after the world – gentle, so gentle as if she could teach a cruel world to care just by caring for it first. The way she talks a mile a minute as if she’s running out of time and couldn’t decide whether to laugh or speak and just decided to do both.

You’d be lying if you didn’t admit that yes, you’d finally noticed her first on the field. So much power contained beneath an unsuspecting exterior. Power that turns into speed, yes, but also grace – a finesse for handling the ball that envies your own. Grace isn’t fragile, however. She does not fly in on dove’s wings but a hawk’s – she strips the ball and leaves you in the dust and you feel the need to say thank you because grace comes with mercy.

but what you really see, and the image burns itself onto your very soul, is the radiant smile that feels like the sun when she finally turns it on you. (but it is a rainy spring’s sun, for it’s behind the clouds as soon as it appears. You try not to dwell on how quickly she looks away whenever your eyes meet.)

ii. _**smell**_ and every one becomes a memory – victory is the heady scent of sweat and champagne and sheer, unadulterated happiness – the champions’ locker room. Victory is the night’s smoke and stink, expected outside a hole-in-the-wall bar as you step out and pull her along (citing the need for ‘fresh’ air, not that there’s much here, not that you much mind, not when you can lean in so close the smoke is replaced by the warmth of her breath on your skin) 

she smells like the sea and you’ve never been so willing to drown.

for a stretch, though, in the middle (but you don’t know it’s the middle, not yet. you think it might be the end.) it’s the stale cabin smell of a commercial flight. Taking you across the country then across the world. You don’t stay long at any place – just long enough to do what you need. For once, your wanderlust heart is sick from it all. Victory is sweet but change isn’t. The Paris air is thick with the scent of fall, like the death of countless leaves and the something you had there. 

it’s when you’re engulfed in the smell of the sea at the shore by her home that you tell her you love her.

iii. **_sound_** is for when she tells you back.

iv. **_touch_** and **_taste_** go hand-in-hand, you realize thanks to her. There’s no one else in the world who could make you feel this way. Touch is the gentle drag of your hand up the exposed skin of her back, relishing the way it draws out a shiver even though you both feel like you’re on fire. Taste is the way you can’t resist tracing your tongue up the path that your fingers just left and you’re rewarded with more. More skin, more heat, more gasping breaths from her parted lips that you decide to taste too.

touch tethers you to the ground, something you’ve never wanted yet something you’ve always been chasing. but her taste makes you feel like you’re flying.

**Author's Note:**

> me muttering quietly to myself while writing this: wh. what the fuc k. what the fuck? am i in love with christen press?
> 
>  
> 
> anyway this might have a companion. aka cp's point of view. yikes™


End file.
